CLWN'D
by madwriter223
Summary: Answer to a prompt on Sherlock Kink Meme - Mycroft is afraid of clowns. When he's being overly intrusive, Sherlock dresses as one.


**CLWN'D**

"Good afternoon, John." Mycroft smiled amicably, nodding at the doctor.

Said doctor lowered his newspaper, and smiled slightly. "Hello, Mycroft. Sherlock's upstairs, probably melting someone in the bathtub again."

Mycroft mock-sighed. "I do wonder how you put up with him."

"Never a dull moment."

"Of that I'm sure." Mycroft smiled in that amused (and infuriating) way of his, then moved to the stairs. "You won't mind if I pop upstairs and have a talk with him?"

"Go right ahe-" John glanced up when he heard Sherlock's thunderous steps as he run down the stairs. "Looks like you won't have to."

Mycroft gave him a mild look, then turned to greet his brother. Before he could say a word, he gave a full-body flinch and took a startled step back, his umbrella falling to the floor with a slight clatter.

John frowned and heaved himself up from the armchair, worried that Sherlock had done something extremely stupid, like chop of his own arm for an experiment. But when he did actually see his flatmate, he did a double take.

There stood Sherlock. The skin of his face was bleached a pure white, his nose red like a ripe apple. There was a glitter star drawn around his left eye, and a painted-on bright grin spread from one ear right to the next. He grinned, almost viciously at his brother.

"Hello, Mycroft. Why so serious?"

The older Holmes swallowed audibly, then scowled. "How childish, Sherlock." His voice quivered slightly, and John frowned in confusion.

Sherlock just grinned wider (now he definitely looked slightly deranged). "Come on, Mycroft. Wanna make balloon animals with me?"

Mycroft paled, then took a hasty step towards the stairs. He threw one last look at his brother, then turned around, and very nearly run down the stairs, the door slamming loudly behind him.

John frowned after him. Then he turned to look at the crazy clown standing next to him. "Why did you dress like this?"

"It got rid of him, didn't it?" Sherlock smirked, far too smug with himself.

"Sherlock."

"Make me some tea, would you John?"

The doctor sighed heavily. "Only if you wash that off. Now, preferably."

A few hours later found John and Sherlock sitting in the living room, watching whatever happened to be on the telly at the moment. Sherlock has long since washed all the paint off his face, though the skin was still slightly reddened from all the scrubbing he had to do to get the stuff off.

Resilient stuff, as it turned out.

Suddenly, knocking on the front door could be heard. Soon after, Mrs. Hudson's voice beckoned the visitor to enter, then they could hear steps on the stairs.

In a few moments, two hard knocks were delivered to their door.

"Sherlock, could you get that?"

"I'm busy."

"You're staring into space."

"I'm thinking."

A sigh. "If you don't get the door, I won't make you any more honey tea."

Sherlock contemplated that for a moment, then untwisted himself from out of his spot on the sofa, and moved to the door.

He opened it, then stopped. 'Stopped' as in froze where he stood, his eyes opening to an impossible diameter. After a second or two, his breath returned, setting immediately into a rapid pace, and his hands started shaking.

John's brows knit together in worry, and he got up quickly. He walked closer to his flatmate, so that he could see past the half-closed door. Then, once again that day, he did a double take.

There stood Lestrade. The skin of his face was bleached a pure white, his lips black like the deepest of nights. Both eyes were surrounded by an odd shape in black, a single tear painted high upon one cheek. And on top of his head, an honest to God black beret.

John stared from the Inspector to the detective for a moment or two, then smirked slightly. "So it's mimes for you, huh?"

Sherlock flinched at the comment, then threw himself backwards and away from Lestrade. He fell to his knees behind John, grasping one of the legs of the man's pants with a desperate grip.

John stared at him bemusedly, then shook his head and turned to the other man. "How can we help you, Inspector?"

Lestrade smirked, then begun a series of movements. It looked like... okay, it was something long. Something that could be held in one hand, and twirled around. A cane, perhaps? No, not a cane. Lestrade slid his loosely closed fists along this something... opening it, perhaps? Oh.

"You came for Mycroft's umbrella, didn't you?"

Lestrade clapped soundlessly.

"Sherlock, will you get it?"

The detective shook his head jerkily, pressing closer against John's leg.

"The sooner you get it, the sooner the mime can leave."

That certainly got Sherlock moving. He retrieved the umbrella in record time, then went back to cowering behind the doctor, pressing the item into his flatmate's side.

John couldn't help an amused grin as he took the umbrella and handed it to the Inspector. "Why don't I show you to the door?"

Lestrade nodded, waved good-bye to the still freaked-out detective, then marched down the stairs.

"So, why the mime act?" John couldn't resist asking just before the Inspector walked outside.

In short succession, Lestrade lifted the umbrella, pointed upstairs, slammed a fist against his open palm, then shook his head with a shrug.

John chuckled. "You figured punching Sherlock for scaring Mycroft wasn't worth it?"

Lestrade just grinned in reply, saluted, and left, whistling merrily.

John shook his head with an amused grin, then closed the door, and walked back upstairs.

A moment later: "Sherlock, how the hell did you manage to crawl under the _sofa_?"


End file.
